


Office (After) Hours

by starlight_searches



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Language, F/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Professor/TA AU, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shameless Smut, Star Wars Modern AU, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_searches/pseuds/starlight_searches
Summary: Professor Hux seems stressed. You can help with that.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Reader, Armitage Hux/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Office (After) Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Armitage Hux x Femme! Reader (No pronouns but reader is referred to as ‘good girl’ once)
> 
> This is loosely based on a ficlet I did last week on my tumblr, @starlightsearches. I'll link it down below! 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy!! 💖

From the back of a lecture hall, Professor Hux is all harsh angles—sculpted cheekbones and a firm brow, piercing eyes beneath dark-framed glasses—but up close, he’s unimaginably soft. 

You never could have anticipated, in any of your most illicit daydreams, the way it would feel to have his hands cup your face, like you’re the god he prays to, never could have guessed how the fabric of his sweater would feel so delicate against your skin, how his slicked-back hair would part beneath your fingertips as you gasped against his lips.

He’s taking his time with you—gentle, restrained kisses, punctuated by the occasional nip of his teeth or a long, slow stroke with his tongue into the hot center of your mouth. You feel yourself getting desperate for him, legs shaking. Your hips ache from the effort it takes to stand, the edge of his desk digging into your ass. It’s starting to bruise. 

And damn well worth the pain.

His hands travel down your body, ghosting over the curve of your breasts before he reaches the hem of your shirt, tugging gently at the fabric until his cool fingers meet your flushed skin.

You lean back, breaking the kiss, living for the way he follows before realizing what you’re doing, the way his eyes go wide when you yank your shirt up and over your head. Shivers break out over your skin under the weight of his gaze, your whole body alight with the way it feels to be at the center of his universe.

He caresses your skin with delicate reverence, full of the same forbidden awe as someone stroking their fingers against a marble statue when the museum security guard has their back turned.

“Beautiful,” he breathes through the word, and you’d probably be embarrassed by the attention if it didn’t feel so _fucking_ good. “Did you wear this for me?”

His fingers meet the lacy edge of your bra, and you smile coyly. 

“That depends—did you want to fuck me before I showed up here tonight?”

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for a _very_ long time,” he presses his hips against yours more firmly, the weight of his dick prominent against the bend of your hip, and you can’t help but wonder how often he’s gotten off at the thought of you, how many times he’s stroked his own length thinking about a moment _exactly_ like this one . . .

“Lay back for me,” he commands, guiding you up onto the surface of his desk with one hand underneath your thigh, and despite everything that’s just happened, your heart races. 

“Are you sure, professor? You don’t have to—” he silences you with a gentle squeeze to your hip, and suddenly you’re not interested in arguing anymore. 

“Call me Armitage, when we’re together like this,” he says as you shift your way into a sitting position, “and yes, I’m sure. I want to taste you.”

You’re not sure what you’re more excited about—the fact that he’s offering to go down on you, or that he already anticipates that this will happen again. It doesn’t matter either way; you lower yourself down onto his desk, clenching your jaw more tightly when its cold surface meets your skin. There’s a stack of papers in the place where you rest your head—the same ones you just graded, and a giggle bubbles up from the center of your chest. You’ll have to pass those back tomorrow.

He runs his hands over the tops of your thighs, drawing soft circles on your skin and watching for a reaction, experimenting. You know your chest must be heaving, skin shiny with sweat, but you keep your eyes up, counting the ceiling tiles; you’re going to pass out if you don’t get your breathing under control.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, and then another, just above that, following the path his hands take as he moves the edge of your skirt up higher and higher until the fabric is bunched up against your waist, and your panties are the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt.

“You’re soaked, darling,” he says, and you jolt when he presses the meat of his thumb against your covered entrance, admiring the darkened patch of fabric at the center. “Are you always this wet for me?”

“Yes, sir.” There’s no way for you to keep the shake out of your voice, so you lean into it, letting him hear how breathless you are. He pulls his thumb away, and a soft whine escapes your lips, thighs clenching at the loss of contact.

“What was that?” His voice is stern and you shift your hips forward, willing yourself closer to him, begging for him to touch you again. 

“I’m sorry, Armitage, I won’t forget again.” 

He smiles before placing his finger back against your core, this time with enough pressure to part the cleft of your pussy, tracing a single circle over your aching clit. 

“Very good,” he says, increasing the pressure of his thumb—a little reward for your compliance, “I know you’ll be good for me.”

You nod urgently, the papers beneath your head rustling quietly from the movement. He continues the delicate strokes and you let your eyes flutter closed, your lips parting slightly. 

“Feels so good, Armitage. Don’t stop,” you whisper, letting the praise blend in with the gentle patter of rain against the window. You can be patient, you’re sure, if everything he does feels this good. You’re willing to let your pleasure come to you.

That’s before he puts his mouth on you.

Your restraint flees the moment his lips meet your cunt, his tongue darting out against the already-damp fabric of your underwear. You’re possessed—in that moment—your back arching off the surface of the desk, your hands entangling themselves in his hair, trying to hold him in place. You _need_ him to do that again.

He breaks your grasp on him easily, pulling away without warning, back erect, eyes boring into you from the other side of the desk as he takes both of your wrists into his hands, caging them in with his fingers.

“I thought you were going to be good for me,” he says seriously, tracing light shapes with his thumb over the center of your wrist. There’s a gentleness in the gesture that’s mirrored in his eyes as he waits for your response—checking to see if this is alright with you, making sure it’s not too much.

“I’m sorry, Armitage,” you say, a soft pout on your lips as you pull yourself upright, using his hold on you as leverage, “It’s just that I want you so badly, but it won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll be perfect from now on.” 

He quivers as you get closer, hands falling free from your wrists of their own accord. You stroke your newly freed fingers through his hair, cupping the back of his neck before kissing him slowly, putting everything you have into your little performance. If he wants to play games, you might as well serve him the ball.

He moans into your mouth, unexpectedly—curled fists landing against your thighs, caught off-guard, totally under your control. It only takes him a moment to recover from his little lapse, more eager than he was before, now that he has your permission. 

“Lay back again, darling,” he says, holding your chin in one hand and pressing a single, hard kiss to your jaw, “hold onto the edge of the desk. We’ll try this again.” Anticipation floods your veins as you do what you’re told, wrapping your fingers around the solid wood behind your head. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, and god, those words go straight to your cunt. How’ll you ever sit through another one of his lectures without hearing an echo of this moment on repeat in the back of your mind?

He presses a single, chaste kiss at the hem of your underwear before he looks up at you, gauging your reaction. You shift slightly, getting comfortable, but you manage to hold firm.

His movements are leisurely and unhurried as he mouths gingerly at your clothed cunt, his hands resting gently on your thighs, his thumb occasionally stroking your skin just underneath the edge of your panties—trying to get a rise out of you. 

“Are you going to beg?” He asks casually, like he wants to know about your plans for the upcoming weekend or whether or not you’ve finished the last set of test corrections. His mouth never stops roaming over the lacy fabric, and you _feel_ the words more than you hear them, your breath jumping in your lungs.

You swallow hard, taking a deep breath to steady your voice, but you still sound unsure, “. . . do you want me to?”

He chuckles at that—you feel his breath against your thighs before he pulls back, meeting your eyes over the piled-up fabric of your skirt before he responds, “eventually.”

Damn him. Your arms are already sore, hanging above your head, and you’re beginning to lose feeling in your fingers. The pain is mitigated, though, when he grips the hem of your underwear in both hands, tugging gently. You lift your hips eagerly, rolling your eyes when he slides the fabric down your thighs as slow as he can manage.

A shiver travels up your spine when the cold air of his office meets your slick entrance, a shifty, jittery high spreading over your skin. For a moment, nothing happens, and an alarm sounds in the back of your mind, wondering what could possibly be wrong. 

He reaches over you, stroking his thumb at your waist, and you shift so that you can look him in the eyes. He takes a deep breath, swallowing hard, a longing look on his face.

“Sit up, love, please,” he asks, unable to mask the entirety of his desperation, “I want to be able to see you.” 

You nod, unable to speak around the lump in your throat as you prop yourself up on your elbows against the hard surface of the desk. You can’t remember the last time someone wanted you _this_ badly, wanted to experience your pleasure more than they wanted to reach their own. He leaves his eyes on you as he bends down, resting his thumb at the apex of your thighs, spreading you open, revealing your needy clit.

His eyes fall from yours when he closes that final distance, but you can’t look away as he licks one broad, flat stripe over your waiting cunt.

“Fuck,” you curse shakily—seeing him taste you doesn’t take away from the shock of it, the surprising divinity of his tongue against you; just for a moment, you let your eyes roll back, let yourself give in to the heat that spreads through your limbs. 

He’s slow and methodical, but you certainly don’t mind that now, your heartbeat rising steadily with the soft suction of his lips and the attentive stroke of his tongue. Your core begins to tighten, thighs quaking, and when you look at him, watching the way his glasses shift in his hair as he french kisses your cunt, you’re sure you won’t be able to hold on much longer.

That’s when he pulls away. 

You squeeze your eyes tight, reeling, your body desperately trying to hold onto the release he’d stolen. He watches you nonchalantly, wiping your slick from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” he asks, and you try your best to level him with a glare. The effect is unimpressive—partially because you don’t really mean it. You don’t want him to be done with you yet.

“Would now be a good time to beg?” you joke instead, nudging him gently with your thigh. To your surprise, he actually smiles.

“If you’d like,” he says, standing from the chair, hovering over you, tracing your lips with the pad of his finger before slipping two digits into your waiting mouth.

You suck, without him asking, sliding your tongue between the two fingers, enjoying the way he tries not to squirm. He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop, eyes admiring the shine of your spit coating his skin.

“Okay, I’m begging,” you whisper, bridging the gap between your mouth and his. He’s hesitant, in the kiss, holding back from you just enough that you have to work for it. You understand the message: _you’re not begging yet, but you will be._

The implied threat is totally forgotten when he slides the first finger inside you, followed by the second, the initial thrust sending a shockwave through your system when he hits a spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

You moan, a deep, guttural sound that you’ve never heard come from your own mouth before; Armitage kisses you more firmly, his other hand tight at your waist as he pulls you against him.

“How does it feel?” he whispers, shifting his mouth from yours, nose pressed up against your cheek as your head lolls to the side. His thumb is at your clit again, moving in time with the thrusts of his fingers, and thinking at all takes a considerable amount of effort.

“Feels good—so good. Perfect,” you mumble, anchoring yourself with one hand, thrusting your hips against his fingers. “You have perfect hands, Armitage.”

You’re not entirely sure where that thought came from, but it’s true. His hands _are_ perfect—long fingers that move so smoothly in tandem, stroking against your front wall with inhuman precision until your jaw falls slack.

You half-register his chuckle at your ramblings, barely cognizant of the way his tongue traces shapes over your feverish skin, or the way he mouths at your neck. You’re going to cum, core tightening again—the fire of your climax sending its preliminary sparks through your cunt.

Then he stills his hand, and it’s extinguished.

“ _God_ , Armitage,” you curse through gritted teeth—in this moment, they’re one and the same—chest heaving with tearless sobs, “please.” 

He smirks against your neck, the fucking asshole. You’ll pay him back, if you survive this. You’ll leave him a quivering, miserable, horny mess when you get the chance. 

“Now you’re begging,” he confirms, sitting back in his chair, a self-satisfied look in his eye. He presses a kiss on the inside of both thighs, eyelashes fluttering against delicate skin, “and now you’ll get what you want.”

You lean back, trying to calm the lightning beat of your heart. Finally.

He starts slow again, with the softest of kisses and licks, the two fingers inside you moving so faintly, you’re starting to wonder if you’re hallucinating the feeling. 

“Do you want to cum?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer. You try to form the words, but all that comes out is a breathy moan as his fingers pick up the pace, thrusting in and out of you with steady precision, his thumb stroking over your clit to make up for the absence of his mouth.

“I want to hear you say it,” he says, always authoritative, and there are tears in your eyes, pooling at the corners and dripping into your hair.

“Let me cum, Armitage. Please. I want it, I want it, I want it—” Communicating your desires eloquently isn’t an option right now, so you babble instead, letting your words trail off into a silent ecstasy when he returns his mouth to your clit, licking a solid stripe over the delicate area before sucking it tenderly between his lips.

You shatter, legs shaking, cunt spasming around his fingers as your orgasm blinds you to anything but his mouth and his hands and _him_. Every part of you is bursting, the pleasure of your release ripping through you at your seams, head rolling back, eyes wide open, blinded to anything but the light. You’re leaving part of your soul in this moment. 

He brings you down from your unforgettable high, the movements of his tongue and fingers growing steadily more gentle until he pulls his mouth away completely, offering you one final, simple kiss.

He removes his fingers from your cunt, and you take his wrist in your hand, enveloping both digits in the warmth of your mouth. He watches, surprised, as you clean yourself off of him, swirling your tongue around the tips of his fingers—the smallest hint of retaliation. It may have been incredible—the pounding of your heart can attest to that—but you hadn’t yet forgotten the amount of pain it took for you to get here. He watches you, eyes fathomless, lips trembling until you loose your grasp. 

His grip is harsh against the back of your neck, fingers wet against your skin from your spit and your spend, but the kiss he lays on your lips is affectionate, emotional. Unexpected. 

The kiss ends; he doesn’t let go, bodies intertwined, breathing with you as the rain plays its melody against the glass. You’d like to stay like this forever, your fingers dancing serenely over his shoulders. It feels good to be held by him. 

He shifts first, turning to the clock beside his desk, arms falling from your sides and you try not to let your disappointment show. 

“It’s late. I’ll drive you home,” he whispers, pulling away from you as he begins to gather his things.

“But, sir,” you shift in place on the desk, eyes flashing down to the obvious tent in his pants, maybe a little more desperate than you should be—all things considered, “aren’t you . . . uncomfortable?”

He chuckles at your word choice, grabbing your shirt from the floor, pressing a kiss to your neck before handing it to you, whispering right up against your ear.

“My car has tinted windows, darling. Maybe you could take care of it for me on the drive?” You smile to yourself, body thrumming with a new kind of thrill. He’d better pray for _a lot_ of red lights.

**Author's Note:**

> https://starlightsearches.tumblr.com/post/643940675656810496/college-au-college-au-college-au-in-case-it


End file.
